Pure Thing Under Construction
by kurgaya
Summary: Ichigo/Tōshirō - If there was one thing about his life at Cambridge University that Tōshirō Hitsugaya should have been able to control, it was his unseemly habit of running into people.


**Notes:** Not in the same universe as 'Genesis'; pre-relationship

For **QueenOfCitrus** who has waited long enough (sorry!)

* * *

**Pure Thing Under Construction**

* * *

Perched on the February-chilled brick barricade that divided what was likely Cambridge's smallest, quaintest college from the choppy, icy hands of the river below was not the most ideal place for a break-of-dawn breakfast and revision session. Yet if there was one piece of knowledge that Tōshirō Hitsugaya held safe in his mind, it was that the chances he would be disturbed were naught from such a place. Though university students were of a species unimaginable to the grown man and kept zany, diabolical hours of the day, the six AM sunrise was not seen by the majority of early-risers, nor was it a welcome sight for the majority of the night-owls. Thus Tōshirō – who considered himself to be comfortable between the two – was the sole ghost drifting through the grounds of Trinity Hall.

His company a single, solitary duck wading along the river beneath the sleek, black pristine of the sole of his shoes, Tōshirō tore off a chunk of the blueberry muffin and dropped it down to share. The duck swallowed it happily and quacked for more. The student considered his opinions for a moment. He glanced over at the folder of lecture notes balancing tauntingly on the wall beside him, then apologised to his friend and promptly munched his way through the last of his treat.

Tōshirō knew he was already as skinny enough as it was. He could do without some greedy animal encouraging Luck, Fate, and Harrison Sharpley to bully him even more.

Some things just needed to be avoided.

Apart from the occasional deadly encounter with the aforementioned, life at Cambridge University was quiet. Having unwittingly earned the title of 'geniuses among all geniuses' in the first week of studying degree level Medicine, homework was a secluded chore, lab work was a social nightmare, and friends were as scarce as the food at the college's resident kitchen. And thus; life was quiet. In a way Tōshirō considered himself fortunate. He seldom had other people hanging off of him, drunken dorm-mates dragging him to parties and other claustrophobic gatherings, or family worrying about his every life decision through extensive phone calls. Yet despite not having a single social butterfly fluttering inside of his stomach, Tōshirō still envied that others had people they could talk to and he just had a mindless, distant duck –

_Had_ a duck, to be more precise. It was gone now, off to search for more unsuspecting students with muffins or other tasty bites. The first year student sighed heavily. Deciding the duck's vacation was a sign to do something productive with his morning, Tōshirō began to flick through his FAB (Functional Architecture of the Body) notes for the test scheduled a few hours before lunch. He was on top of his work, but it never hurt to do a little more.

A bountiful of wild cursing and the crunchy grind of the stone pathway distracted him just a page and a half along his loopy blue hand later. Gazing over the top of his work, teal eyes spied a dull flash of dying sunlight atop a tired, frustrated expression. He would have assumed it to be one of the legendary night-owls of the college, except Tōshirō had come to know exactly which members of his course were not big-headed arseholes, and the eighteen year old rushing across the courtyard was one of the few in that category.

It was Ichigo Kurosaki, the only other male Medicine student in the college. He was social, kind-hearted, and had a backbone made of titanium. Tōshirō doubted that jumping up and down on the wall stark naked would get his attention at that moment. A blind man would be able to perceive that there was something lead-weighted on Kurosaki's mind – the thunderstorm shadowing his eyes was a clear giveaway – and Tōshirō couldn't help but wonder what was causing such destruction. Kurosaki was bright – extremely so if he could be committed enough – and while he did struggle somewhat with the essay aspect of examinations, he excelled in the practical laboratory work and dissections. There had been a written test last week – the second version of which would be that morning – but Tōshirō doubted that even an utter failure on that would conjure such a dark expression on the other's face. Curious, but insightful enough to respect Kurosaki's boundaries, Tōshirō held his thoughts close to his chest and simply watched the inferno blaze out of the front gates and into the awakening streets of Cambridge city.

Though concerned, there was little he can do about it. Kurosaki had his own band of friends and Tōshirō was most certainly not one of them. He was the miniature white-haired, white-faced freaky kid, and was either overlooked or looked down upon by his fellow students. Nobody had the time, patience, or desire to see eye-to-eye with him, and thus Tōshirō doubted that Kurosaki even knew he existed. Tōshirō had perfected the art of hiding in plain sight in response to the silent slander, so he couldn't fault Kurosaki completely – or anybody, for that matter. But when society didn't want to comprehend the anomaly it had created, society did a pretty damn good job at doing just that.

Finally having felt the bitter February morning enough to throw on his jacket, Tōshirō relented and gathered up his belongings. He could meander over to the library to shift through some more of his notes, _or_ he supposed he could slowly aim for the Anatomy Lecture Theatre and – quite conveniently – keep an eye out for Kurosaki's thunderous weather front. It wasn't as if he notes would offer anything he didn't already know.

Undecided, but cold enough to get moving, he wandered.

* * *

Running into Sharpley had not been his intention.

Headphones on and senses dulled by the welcome sight of the lecture theatre's front doors, Tōshirō only caught a fleeting brush of the winter wind warning before the vivid white top and black tie of the immaculately well-dressed bully flickered in his peripheral vision. _Shit_, his instincts screamed, propelling him to freeze. It was too early to deal with Sharpley; it was always too early. Instantaneously calculating that his window of escape was narrowing with every fraction of a second, Tōshirō dived for the only option – fleeing in the other direction – and promptly side-stepped into the path of the one other person he wasn't entirely up for bumping into at that moment in time.

Running into Kurosaki had not been his intention either, but as the outcome of that event simply left him embarrassed and flattened on-top of a six foot student instead of humiliated and squashed _under_ a six foot student, Tōshirō figured hearing Sharpley howling with laughter in the distance was worth it as Kurosaki spluttered out an apology from underneath him.

"I'm sorry, that was my fault," Tōshirō admitted, hoisting himself up and offering the other a hand. Kurosaki, who had gained some colour to his cheeks since earlier that morning, accepted the help and scooped their bags up, handing the boring messenger bag over before donning his own, more extravagant one.

At the apology Kurosaki laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. It was a habit Tōshirō knew he fell into when nervous from all the time he spent sitting at the back of the lecture theatre observing the two hundred students around him. "It's alright, my bad," soothed Kurosaki, hardly seeming fazed. "I wasn't really looking where I was going either so let's just say we're both idiots –"

Tōshirō wasn't entirely sure what prompted him to be so bold to interrupt, but his mouth had opened before he could stop and consider what he was saying; "I wouldn't quite go that far."

"– and forget this happened because I really should've – eh?"

The high-toned sound that blurted from Kurosaki's lips was akin to a lost, puppy-dog whine. Tōshirō felt his embarrassment return ten-fold at the flustered and momentarily unnerved expression on the ginger teenager's face.

"Thanks," Kurosaki said eventually. His features were lighter now, less weighted by whatever storm had been brewing inside of his stressed and buzzing mind that morning. "I imagine that was meant to be a compliment?"

"If you want to interpret it that way," Tōshirō clarified, futilely willing his blush to subside as Sharpley's laughter mutated into mocking mutterings and sniggers. The only relief was that the of the ripple of students crawling into the early lecture had unheeded their crash. One man's razor smile Tōshirō could handle; a room full he could not.

A raindrop chime interjected Kurosaki's abrupt amusement. He scowled instantly, shoving his hand into his jacket to drag his mobile out with a regretful growl. Tōshirō averted his gaze to offer the pretence of privacy, but Kurosaki had already raised a brief hand in farewell and slashed across his phone to answer the call as he stalked into the building.

"– Yeah dad, no, I haven't –"

The rest of the conversation faded into the bustle of tired student groans and sluggish, heavy footfalls dragging unwilling demeanours of the morning's imminent test. Feeling a strange, churning emotion inside of his gut that he could only define as 'involvement', Tōshirō glanced around; checked the time; and nodded to himself.

The shops at Lion Yard weren't far and he made it there and back again with plenty of time to spare for lecture. The room was mostly packed, and surveying for the neon light bulb of Kurosaki's hair was challenging, even with the entirety of the interior spread out before Tōshirō in a fan of seats, notebooks, and scruffy teenage hopefuls. Casting aside a brief thought that Kurosaki could still be on the phone outside, Tōshirō started to tiptoe down into the room. The rod cells of his peripheral vision buzzed with keen enthusiasm to be the first to identify the tangerine anomaly.

Kurosaki was nowhere to be seen, but what looked suspiciously like his bag and coat was draped across one of the chairs near the centre of the room, directly opposite the lecturer's desk. Two stairs away Tōshirō hesitated, nails digging into the paper takeaway cup of coffee he was nursing like a new-born child. Then – quite subtly – he forced himself to put the drink down beside the open notebook and stationary. He grabbed one of the pens before he could talk himself out of his stupidity, scribbled Kurosaki's name on the side of the cup, and then zipped back up the stairs to find a seat in the darkest, most unprejudiced corner available.

Even know he hoped it would effectively cheer Kurosaki up, Tōshirō was acutely aware of what an unprecedented and strictly soppy action it had been of him. They weren't friends and the chances that they would ever be were laughable. But he felt as if part of Kurosaki's blue mood had stemmed from their collision, and guilt had prompted Tōshirō to rectify his mistake. _It's worth it_, he told himself severely as he tried to find a time turner in the bottom of his bag. _He's a kind person – he deserves it either way._

That was also true. From the cumulative time he had spent watching the interactions of those around him, Tōshirō had concluded that Kurosaki was a delightful, inspiring person to be around, and such a person didn't deserve the lead-weight stress so clearly dragging down his shoulders. Nobody particularly deserved that anyway (not even Sharpley, who Tōshirō frequently wished would disappear into the deepest smokes of Hell) but Kurosaki was different. He was the pollen that drew the bees and the honey that drew the bears. He was a fire for moths that didn't burn and destroy, but warmed and enthused. He was the pulsing centre of a nuclear reactor and he was –

– _walking over to the seat where the coffee was_.

"Christ," Tōshirō hissed, hiding as much of himself as he could inside his jacket. There was no possible way Kurosaki would ever associate the free drink with him. Yet he still prayed to any Fortune that would listen to him for concealment as the ginger student did a double-take and picked up the cup to inspect the writing. Tōshirō would never admit that he held his breath – but he did, oh he definitely did – as Kurosaki dropped into the chair and scanned the people sitting near him, working off the plastic lid.

_He probably thinks it's a prank_, Tōshirō mused, cursing his lack of forethought. The first sip of the coffee resulted in a positively surprised expression. Determining it was justifiably safe for him to be drinking it, Kurosaki swallowed another. He stuffed his phone back into his pocket and regarded the handwriting carefully, as if he was knowledgeable of every single student's hand in the room. By the time the lecturer arrived with their tests Kurosaki was still staring at his name with an amused, thoughtful expression, but hadn't once looked in Tōshirō's direction.

He had finished the whole coffee though.

Tōshirō hoped he wouldn't be held accountable as he glowed in the shadowed corner he had tucked himself into.

(He was such an idiot).

But… he was glad Kurosaki's mood had lifted. If nothing else was fashioned from their indirect (and strictly embarrassing) exchange, Tōshirō was content that he had corrected his mistake and that Kurosaki had something to smile about if he ever thought back to this day. Evidently nothing else had, and that included the test once the lecturer called for time and told them all to stop writing. While Tōshirō had quite modestly completed it some twenty minutes early to marvel at the spectrum of expressions scattered about the room, Kurosaki hadn't seemed to have written more than two pages when he had flopped back and pushed the paper away from him with a silent, sorrowful sigh. Tōshirō flipped all five pages of his over a few times, as if that would in any way magically transfer his work to Kurosaki's desk. He tried to reason that he had just written an excessive amount in his curly, miniature handwriting. It didn't work well, but there was nothing for it as the students began to filter out of the theatre, piling up their work as they fled to freedom, except to rationalise that it was only a little, insignificant test.

Which it wasn't. Nothing ever was in Cambridge University.

Yet Tōshirō could handle the pressure of extraordinarily high expectations. He didn't particularly enjoy having them towered on his shoulders in the first place – who did? – but once they were there it just simply took commitment and the correct chisel to whittle them away again; the former, arguably, being the more challenging of the two to discover. Given the nature of the society they were unfortunate enough to live in, the expectations forever piled up higher and higher, growing heavier on the backs of younger and younger people. It was unfair and downright stressful, but some things just had to be accepted for the injustice that they were.

Kurosaki's wretched expression when he walked past was one of those things.

Tōshirō sighed and gathered up his belongings. In his pocket his phone chimed and he groaned half-heartedly as he wandered out into the lobby. He already knew precisely who it was – hardly anybody's phones held the knowledge of his number – so the text came as no surprise.

**Library. Now. I know you're free xx**

"Damn you," Tōshirō muttered. He tapped a message back as a reluctant smile, hidden behind the folds of his scarf, warmed its way onto his face. Sometimes he questioned his decision to put up with Rangiku Matsumoto's exuberant character, but then he reminded himself he never had a choice in the matter anyway. She was nothing if not persistent after all. Truth be told he didn't mind spending time with her, even if she was the personification of a cat that spent its charmed life doing what cats do best – alternating between lazing around and hyperactive yowling at three o'clock in the morning. Tōshirō was often gifted with first-hand experience of both – their rooms were just mere feet away from each other in the Central Site, and she had elected him as 'the only person who can actually get me to study' within the first two days of meeting one another.

It was more entertaining than his reputation as a sagacious prodigy at least.

Tōshirō almost re-evaluated that thought when he walked into the library to find the chirpy strawberry-blonde half-buried inside a cage of foreign language and history textbooks, screwed-up pages and post-it notes scattered everywhere. Upon noticing him Rangiku flew across the room and dragged him into the seat at the opposite end of the table, a flurry of words already bursting from her lips;

"– you're here, I've been trying to do this stupid essay for almost an hour and nobody is answering their phones. It's not due for three days but I know what you're like; 'Rangiku get your head down and stop yattering at all the sexy men' – honestly, I'm not that bad, I don't know why you –"

"Rangiku," Tōshirō interrupted calmly, placing his bag up onto the desk for protection a moment before she whirled around and almost jabbed his eye out with a pen. "Give me what you've written and breathe for a minute."

Frazzled, Rangiku flopped down into her chair. She threw her head back, slinking down until her knees collided with the table and her deep violet dress seemed to meld with the cushion she was compressing with her anxiety. Tōshirō rolled his eyes at her uselessness and reached across to swipe the essay; "Be kind to me," grumbled Rangiku as he did, and he huffed at the sheer gall of the statement.

"Kindness won't give you a pass," he deadpanned. He flicked through the first page. "I don't see why you're so worried about this; it's easily one of the best – oh."

"Uh-huh," said Rangiku, without lifting her hung head of shame. There was a roughly scribbled unhappy face across the second page, spanning from top to bottom and swallowing the frantic text written beneath it. Tōshirō had to almost press his face against the sheet to discern some of the words.

"I thought you were learning Spanish?" he asked, peering over the top of the essay like a stringent, unconvinced librarian.

Rangiku groaned. "I know."

"This isn't Spanish," he added unapologetically. "And I don't think seventeen forty-two is the correct date for –"

She cut across his reprimand with another groan, pushing forward and smothering her face against the desk. "I know. It's a stupid essay. I'd rather not hand it in."

At the current state of the work, Tōshirō could see why. He frowned down at it thoughtfully, gently turning it back over to reveal the more prestigious side. They both knew that she had to hand something in. Despite having a brilliant mind for her Modern and Medieval Languages course, Rangiku Matsumoto was notably not the most dedicated student, and receiving a warning was not the kind of pressure a person like her needed.

"We can fix this," he explained, deliberately placing emphasis on the 'we' as his friend gazed up at him hopefully through her fringe, the epitome of a delinquent puppy. "So don't panic."

Rangiku laughed and slid her essay back across the table, more inclined to throw herself in for another attempt now that she was safe in the knowledge that it was salvageable. "You're more likely to panic than I am," she teased, her face scrunching up when she re-read the mess she had made.

Tōshirō hummed, conceding. "That's few and far between, thank you. Here, pass me that – what?"

She was grinning at him wildly; her 'woman's intuition' screaming that she knew something he didn't. It was a sight he had seen plenty times before, though it was rarely directed towards him and he felt he could finally understand why men quivered at the – frankly – terrifying expression.

"What?" he asked again, uncomfortable under her knowledgeable gaze.

"Oh," Rangiku sang, laughing to herself. "Nothing."

Clearly there was something, but he doubted any method bar ruthless bribing would get her to talk about it now. She was exceptionally stubborn like that. Tōshirō asked again however, in a flat tone as if it would fool her into thinking he truly wasn't interested in what she had to say; "What, Rangiku?"

She merely laughed at him as she reached around for a textbook. It was an infuriating sound. "Nothing," she chimed, and then she winked at him. "I'll get it out of you eventually."

He frowned at her fiercely. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Really?"

Tōshirō fumbled, trying to think back to what he might have said to elicit such an abrupt turn of the conversation. When his mind produced nothing but a blank slate, he grumbled out the only thing he could respond with; "Yes Matsumoto, I honestly have absolutely no idea what you're suggesting. Stop waggling your eyebrows and –"

"Waggling my eyebrows."

"– start doing that essay. I have another lecture in an hour. Or did you not want my help?"

Rangiku's giddy expression dropped into a pout at his firm glare and she wisely shoved a textbook towards him to quell the storm brewing beneath his level complexion. One unyielding white eyebrow rose expectantly. She laughed uncertainly and flipped open the book to where she needed him to read.

"I'll behave," she admitted, yet the twinkle in her eyes remained.

Tōshirō figured that was good as he was ever going to get and smoothed his relentless features, clearing his throat. She smiled a dazzlingly smile at him from across the table and he sighed, though he felt no pressure or reluctance to help. He had informed her many times that no matter how irritating she was, his door would always be open to her. Occasionally she seemed to exploit this, but Tōshirō knew her too well to conclude that he was truly being taken advantage of. Rangiku was a capable, intellectual young woman, and so only really hounded him when he was in the mood for it. Given his saintly patient temperament, that was the majority of the time.

Thankfully Rangiku's essay was finished by the time Tōshirō realised he should probably get a move on if he wanted to make it half way across the city for his practical session. She thanked him profoundly enough to warrant a glare from one of the staff members hiding in the shadows, which prompted Tōshirō to swiftly apologise to the gleaming predacious eyes and drag his bubbly friend out of the library. Rangiku giggled freely now that there was one less deadline on her mind and grabbed his smaller hand, hardly breaking a sweat to keep them hip-to-hip when he fruitless tried to evade her capture.

"Aww Tōshirō, I didn't know you cared!" she sang, hauling him in the opposite direction to his destination. "Come on, I'll buy you a drink. You have an unhealthy obsession with tea don't you?"

He was powerless to deny her womanly ways. Tōshirō offered no resistance, but he did glower at her instigation and remained glowering even as she pressed a disposable paper cup into his hands with a smile. He mumbled his gratitude and sipped hesitantly. It was a perfect blend of rich flavourings and diabetic sweetness and completely, utterly free, but Tōshirō still felt a frigid wave of melancholy wash over him as they stepped back out into the cobbled Cambridge streets. Unable to explain the precise cause of his unforeseen blues, he hid his emotions behind his drink and parted ways with his friend, promising to see her back at the college for dinner.

Arriving just shy of late to his practical lab session was hardly a bother. Having the unprecedented skill of being capable of blending into his environment and passing almost entirely unnoticed by most meant that he could slip into the back of the room as his classmates were grabbing lab coats and safety equipment, and effortlessly join in without disturbing the rhythm. They worked in small groups during practical sessions (primarily so the room could accommodate them all). Fortunately, Kurosaki was timetabled to share such hours with him, and quite unfortunately so was Sharpley. The method of dissection required the upmost precision and concentration, so Tōshirō was saved from being humiliated and ridiculed under the watchful eye of their professor while in the lab, but it was still impossible to escape the spiteful aura of self-importance that surrounded the uptight and well-dressed bully.

The session that followed was a prime example of how irritating Sharpley could be while situated on the edge of Tōshirō's vision and hearing. Coincidentally paired with Kurosaki for the hour, Tōshirō tried his best to ignore the sniggers and suggestive motions from the bane of his existence. No doubt Sharpley was re-enacting that morning's awkward collision outside of the lecture theatre, but with his own demoralising twist it served to be noxious fuel for Tōshirō's mounting headache. Though tempted to throw the scalpel at the dancing target, Tōshirō forced himself to stay committed to the task, lest he ruin the standardised procedure and leave his and Kurosaki's hard work in shambles on the counter. And since Kurosaki prided himself in being adept at the applied aspect of the degree, Tōshirō didn't want that to happen. If he ruined his own work – so be it, but he didn't want to be responsible for wrecking somebody else's.

Twenty minutes of subtle arrogance into the period, Kurosaki leaned over to grab another scalpel and whispered with a scowl; "Is he always like that?"

Tōshirō startled and focused his gaze on the creased eyebrows and firmly flattened lips of his partner, momentarily surprised enough at the concern for his brain to flicker in confusion about the topic of conversation. At the meaningful quirk of Kurosaki's eyebrow, the shorter student mirrored the scowl and glared down at the specimen laid out on the table.

"Yes," he replied softly, pretending that Sharpley's behaviour meant nothing to him. "Would an incision here be correct? The liver –"

"Left a bit," Kurosaki corrected, nudging Tōshirō's scalpel with his own. "Relax a little bit – you're gonna cut too deep at this rate. It's a scalpel, not a machete."

No doubt a machete would have been more effective against Sharpley's slander, but Tōshirō loosened his grip at the kind reminder. "Sor –"

"And you should just tell Harrison to get lost; he's not worth it," Kurosaki continued, briefly lifting his gaze to watch Tōshirō expectantly before returning to his notes. "I would've punched him by now."

Though warmed by the concern, Tōshirō huffed at the statement. He would like nothing better than to get Sharpley off of his back, but antagonising bullies was a counterproductive measure into gaining some peace and quiet in his life. "Not everything can be solved with fists," he reprimanded, catching Kurosaki's eye roll. "Sometimes subtler approaches are more fruitful."

"What – like doing nothing? Tōshirō, if your approach was any more subtle you'd be bullying yourself."

"It's nothing to be worried about," Tōshirō assured, though his eyes followed the back of Sharpley's head as the other young man's attention was drawn away by a student. "He'll get bored and find somebody else to pick on when he eventually realises I won't rise to the bait."

"That doesn't exactly solve the problem," Kurosaki grumbled, scowling.

"No," Tōshirō conceded, shrugging somewhat helplessly and expression lifted in question. He finished the incision and then stepped aside, allowing the other student to step in to initiate the next phase of the procedure. "But what else can I do? Tattle to my supervisor?"

He handed over a clean wooden board and moved around the counter so that he was blocking the predacious glare Kurosaki was burning into the back of Sharpley's head. Eyes softening into a warm hazelnut, Kurosaki seemed dissatisfied with that answer, but he said nothing more on the subject as the dissection continued. Aware that the ginger was not one to back down so easily, Tōshirō vowed to refrain from causing any more trouble with his problems in the other's vicinity, and silently continued to assist with the lesson until the period was called to a close.

Miraculously, Sharpley didn't bother him for the rest of the day. Kurosaki did, however, appearing rather abruptly in the college's dining hall that evening as Tōshirō attempted to tune his brain into any other frequency than the rambling of Rangiku's boisterous happiness. Their encounter was fleeting, unexplained, and entirely surprising on Tōshirō's behalf, who was so unaccustomed to such a popular (gorgeous) person repeatedly seeking out his (measly) attention, that even Rangiku's over-exaggerated grin couldn't dispel the flame of happiness that flickered inside of him as the marmalade sun dawned from the sea of hungry students.

"Thanks," Kurosaki said, phone in one hand and bottle of water in the other, both of which offered no further explanation.

Feeling as if he had zoned out of the former half of the conversation in a bubbly, girlish daydream, Tōshirō had to ask; "What for?"

The look he received consisted entirely of a stupefied; 'surely you're not that slow?' Tōshirō spluttered, scowling at the insulting implication, and the other boy smiled.

"You know," said Kurosaki offhandedly, glancing over at whatever intellectually perceptive expression Rangiku was showing and suppressing a grimace. "The coffee."

"What?" Rangiku blurted, and Tōshirō could hear the flabbergast morphing her beautiful features into something astounded and entertained. "What coffee?"

"Um," muttered Tōshirō, not wholly sure he wanted to get into that conversation and feeling the betraying heat light up his stricken, dazed complexion. Rangiku was staring at him now as if he had the answers to the universe plastered across his forehead. "How did you –?"

But Kurosaki had already sauntered off with a wicked grin and large, triumphant gait.

"_What coffee_?" Rangiku repeated breathlessly, seconds away from tearing his arm off. "_Tōshirō Hitsugaya what have you done_?"

'Nothing' clearly wasn't going to cut it.

* * *

Tōshirō didn't know if it was a direct result of him being more observant (more obsessive, and more love-sick) or if Kurosaki was intentionally bumping into him more often (figuratively this time), but the last week of February and the rising of March passed like this:

"Can I sit here?" Kurosaki asked, indicating down to the empty seat at the back of the lecture theatre, where Tōshirō had mechanically dumped his bag to ward away any potential dangers of a room full of stressed out, constantly hungry, hormonal eighteen year olds.

"If you want," Tōshirō replied. It was the best response he could entice his Sahara tongue to respond with despite Kurosaki clearly wishing to sit down, so he dumped his bag on the floor and ignored the clatter of protest from his glasses' case (contacts were a hassle but at least they were easily replaceable) in favour of making room.

Kurosaki flashed him a diamond smile and flopped down into the chair as if he had always belonged there.

Tōshirō had to scream at himself to breathe.

(And)

"How do you spell 'hypochondriac' again? There's a 'h' isn't there?"

Tōshirō murmured his agreement and flipped through another chapter of one of the many textbooks piled up before him. He was one of the four Medicine students dotted around the massive wooden desk like spectators at a satanic ritual, each grumbling and holding their aching heads. Kurosaki thanked him and mouthed out the spelling to himself, ingraining it into whatever space there was left in his brain.

"Hey – err – Tōshirō? Could you check over the last paragraph for me please?" asked one of the students opposite, holding out her essay hopefully. Tōshirō pushed the textbook aside and salvaged the paper from the timid desperation of the girl. Beside him, Kurosaki's head rose in surprise. Glancing over at the ginger (and the place at the table that was usually unoccupied) for just a brief moment before dropping his gaze to the essay, he caught the amused question lighting up Kurosaki's weary complexion;

'You do this a lot?'

Tōshirō shrugged, feeling marginally embarrassed at the revelation of his supportive nature. The girl thanked him when he offered the essay back with only minor comments, but he was convinced it was Kurosaki who was encircled with the perkiest air of pleasure from the exchange.

(And also)

"You're smitten with him."

"Rangiku," Tōshirō sighed despairingly, lifting his exasperated gaze up from the velvet green table. His strawberry-blonde opponent smirked down at him, leaning against the snooker cue, and waved at him to get on with his turn. Grumbling profanities under his breath, the Medicine student blanked out her gleeful expression and swore to win the match to wipe it off her face.

Two tense minutes passed before;

"You can't deny it."

Tōshirō groaned and stepped away from the snooker table, almost smacking a passer-by with the end of the cue. "If this is just some wayward method to distract me –"

"I would never fall so low," Rangiku protested, and at his unconvinced expression she pouted and stuck her tongue out. "That doesn't change the fact that you can't keep your eyes off him. Not that I can blame you – he's gorgeous."

"He's not your type."

She laughed outright and flicked a lock of her golden hair over a shoulder. "Someone's protective," she teased, winking at him. Tōshirō plastered on his most indifferent façade, crossing his arms over his chest for added effect.

"You don't need protecting," he reminded. No matter how many men she teased and twirled around her little finger, Rangiku Matsumoto knew perfectly well how to take care of herself. She may seem innocent on the outside, but her inner self was molten titanium and she had the ferocious temper of a master hunter. Even Tōshirō wouldn't stand in her way.

"Over him," she corrected, talking down at him as if he were five. "It's really cute."

Tōshirō huffed and replied in a brutal finality; "It's not cute. Now are you going to let me have my turn? No matter how much you flutter your eyelashes, I'm not going to cave."

Her silence was answer enough. Grateful that he had escaped that conversation relatively unharmed, Tōshirō leaned back over the snooker table and tried to remember what move he had been planning before her frightening intuition had interrupted him. The bar a few rooms down was just starting to fill up with eager, excited students all in need of a good night's relaxation, so the sounds surrounding them were bustling, loud, and frequent with the deep bellow of masculine laughter. Despite this, Tōshirō could hear his friend's next muttered comment quite clearly, as if she was standing right behind him and whispering tantalisingly into his ear;

"Do you think he'd appreciate a picture of you bent over the table like that?"

His next shot angled excruciatingly wide.

And so did all those that followed.

(Which ultimately led to)

"You're more of a tea person, aren't you?" Kurosaki asked. His voice was disgustingly awake for someone who was slobbering around the bare minimum of what Cambridge called a 'kitchen' in a pair of pyjamas at three o'clock in the morning. He waved some variety of teabag over his shoulder as the kettle finally boiled, but Tōshirō, squashed into the corner of the sofa and falling asleep onto his knees, couldn't register what brand it was. Much to Kurosaki's surprise at their presence, Tōshirō had removed his contact lenses about six hours prior, but his glasses had dropped off the face of the earth around about midnight. Nobody (least of all he) had seen or felt them since.

"Does that bother you?" Tōshirō asked, wrinkling his nose at how the ends of his words slurred faintly, the remnants of his nth glass of wine quirking his cracked lips up into a ghost of a smile.

Kurosaki cautiously handed him a mug of tea, chuckling softly. "Don't be stupid – I have nothing against tea. It just sends me to sleep."

"Stupid," Tōshirō echoed, struggling to fit his woozy, trembling hands around the colossal cup.

"Christ," mumbled the other, tucking himself into the cushions opposite and resting his own drink on his knees. There was a perplexed tint to his expression, though Tōshirō's limited vision was unquestionably not the most reliable source for information in the room. "You're hammered. Maybe going to sleep is a good idea." He poked one of his feet into Tōshirō's leg. "Wakey-wakey, hey? Gonna feel this in the morning aren't we?"

Tōshirō might have responded with something along the lines of 'go to hell,' but with the empty distance between his consciousness and his surroundings he couldn't be certain of the thoughts spilling out of his broken filter. Luckily it was unlikely either of them would remember any event past eleven the next morning. If they managed to drag their brick heads out of bed that is. Or even go to sleep in the first place.

"Stop poking me," he grumbled, feebly swatting away Kurosaki's foot.

"What can I say?" Kurosaki laughed, crisp and clear. "You're pokable."

Shaking his head, Tōshirō resisted the enticing temptation to press his face against the sofa and never move again. "Not a word."

Across the sofa, Kurosaki frowned like a child. "What's not a word?"

"What's a word. Pokable's not."

"Not what? What's what?"

Tōshirō stared him down with an unfocused glare. "A word."

"What?"

"No," he corrected, humming against the rim of his mug. "'Pokable'."

"Gotta catch them all," sang Kurosaki, now tapping his foot against Tōshirō's to the beat of a noiseless song. He grinned and buried his face behind his coffee, blowing gently across the surface to marvel at the ripples.

Tōshirō took a moment to register the answer. "Catch what? Words?"

"Pokémon," said Kurosaki simply, and then; "How can you not know what Pokémon are? Christ, we need to have a series one marathon at some point – though maybe without all the alcohol. Why did we let Rangiku rope us into this?"

"Because you were stressed and miserable," said Tōshirō, proud that he knew the answer to at least one of the questions. He might have been a valuable asset to the team at the college's pub quiz night some hours ago, but he couldn't remember now. "Are you still?"

Kurosaki shrugged freely. "What was I miserable about?"

Tōshirō cautiously sniffed his tea, as if that would offer up the answer. "I have no idea. Perhaps the results of that test tomorrow?"

"We had a test?"

The tea tasted wonderful, though Tōshirō knew for certain that it hadn't been brewed from his own stash. Pleased with the soft taste melting into his tongue, the shorter student simply hummed and replied absentmindedly, "Apparently."

* * *

"Fuck me," groaned Kurosaki later that morning, greeting Tōshirō's open door with a rustled bed-head hairdo and blatantly mismatched clothes. Only marginally more composed than his friend, Tōshirō plopped the toothbrush out of his mouth and pointed it at Kurosaki's exhausted expression accusingly, furrowing his eyebrows in question. The sunshine embodiment was storming again with dark, wretched eyes and a hollowed complexion of stress, and even his words, when he continued to speak, were low with a thunderous finality; "We're getting those results this morning, aren't we?"

_Ah_, thought Tōshirō, the events of the night before rushing back to him in a million blurry hazes of a memory; the phone call from Kurosaki's family, the quiz night with Rangiku, the bottle of wine Tōshirō had drowned his adoration and rationality in, and the teatime conversation at the crack of dawn. "I don't think taking you to bed would solve the problem right now," he admitted lightly, venturing for a smile from the other. "It won't be that bad."

"I don't know, your bed does look pretty inviting," said Kurosaki, peering over the top of Tōshirō's head to gauge the dimensions of the room symmetrical to his own. "Do you think I could murder Professor Layton on it?"

("You call him 'Professor _Layton_'?"

"Hey, hey, it was Renji's idea and it stuck. Plus it's a much cooler name. And he _does_ look like Professor Layton.")

"I like to think my bed doesn't encourage homicidal tendencies," droned Tōshirō, rolling his eyes as he finished preparing for a day of lectures.

Kurosaki chuckled, though there was still a note of frantic apprehension that made his amusement waver uncertainly. "Shame." He rubbed the back of his neck unconsciously, eyes drifting about the room with a fleeting hope that he might uncover some sign that the morning was being dreamt. Tōshirō barely managed to refrain from grabbing the taller man and hauling him into the cupboard to hide from the insecurities and pressures that dimmed the very tips of his hair. The temptation was only amplified the closer they trekked to their lecture; Kurosaki didn't eat at breakfast (he only forced down a glass of apple juice because one of his friends held Tōshirō's glasses hostage – contacts and hangovers were a recipe for disaster – where the resulting scuffle almost knocked one of the cleaners down a flight of stairs) and his usual gruffness degenerated into a series of grunts and whines that even Rangiku – their language specialist – struggled to interpret as they crossed the city streets.

Tōshirō couldn't find any words to empathetically reassure his new-found friend in fear of conveying himself as the arrogant 'wise-guy' that everybody assumed he was, but he stuck attentively to Kurosaki's side like an unsatisfactory pillar of support in the hopes of providing something fruitful.

"It's just my dad – I mean, and my sisters," Kurosaki tried to explain as they mooched through the cobbled side streets, though Tōshirō was certain he had been privy to the clarification once before (despite relatively tipsy at the time). "I've already gotten a warning from my supervisor – I don't know what they'll do if I fail _another_ test. Can they kick me out? Karin'll be devastated if they do; she'll blame herself, but it's not _her_ fault she's sick."

Tōshirō latched onto Kurosaki's book bag to stop him from stepping out in front of a bus, but the grumbling teenager didn't appear to notice.

"Christ, I did really badly on this test, Tōshirō – like, awful – I didn't even know what I was saying half the time, I just blabbed through it and I know it was utter rubbish. Why does everything have to be exams? I'd much prefer to physically demonstrate what I'm writing – meant to be writing about. That would be so much easier. I don't know what I was thinking, taking this course. I'm not cut out to be a doctor if I can't even pass a stupid test or – or make my little sister better for fuck's sake. I'm bloody studying in _Cambridge University_ and I can't even help her."

Silent in the face of the hassled ranting, Tōshirō followed the weary footsteps into the lecture theatre. Their lecturer was nowhere to be seen. Yet they were fashionable early once again, so after claiming a seat as far away from the inevitable scrutiny as he could and watching Kurosaki struggle into his own, the golden-hearted, silver haired student asked tentatively, attempting to hide his sensitive consideration behind a neutral demeanour; "Do you want a coffee?"

A starving tiger peering through an auburn fringe, Kurosaki laughed at the question. "Are you getting one for yourself?"

Shrugging, Tōshirō replied, "Perhaps a tea," though he had no plans to buy anything for himself. He received a grateful affirmation at that, and so with plenty of time to spare before lecture, he grabbed his wallet and strode out of the theatre.

Decided, and love-sick enough not to care, he marched.

* * *

Running into Professor Layton had not been his intention.

Cradling a take-away cup of latte between his hands and absentmindedly blowing into the mouthpiece to see if he could cool it down, his feet tracked the journey back across the city without a conscious consideration, the path ingrained into the soles of his shoes. It was with the lecture theatre just up the small flight of stairs that peaked at the possible end of Kurosaki's career (though Tōshirō hoped the fears were just exaggerated, but even before they had spoken he knew that Kurosaki rarely blew things out of proportion), that a colourful curse exploded into his ear and a muscular, frantic figure barrelled into his side.

Catching himself on the last stair just in time, Tōshirō spun around to face their lecturer on his knees a step behind, desperately trying to gather a huge stack of papers, textbooks, and stationary back into a seemingly Mary Poppin's style briefcase. He placed the coffee down to help – the only other person in the area – and the Professor smiled at him warmly with gratitude.

"I'm sorry," said the man, waving some papers at Tōshirō. "I didn't mean to knock you – I just have so many of these to carry and I completely missed the last – oh _shoot_."

A dozen or so files danced out from underneath their hands and tumbled down the street in the early spring breeze. The lecturer leapt up to save them but Fate seemed to be against him, and the papers rustled with glee as they were swept out of his reach. Left with the rest of the man's belongings, Tōshirō hastily stacked everything back up and into the safety of the bag; lecture notes… PowerPoint presentation instructions… pens, pencils, a calculator… the essays that were due to be handed back to their very class…

A wicked, gargling churning of chance erupted in his instinctively moral gut. Tōshirō faltered, momentarily terrified, and somebody down the street laughed at the sight of the Professor chasing after his elusive paperwork. Glancing up from the essays trapped amenably beneath his yearning, indecisive hands, Tōshirō rapidly considered his options as the lecturer exclaimed in triumph, the last of his belongings snatched out of the air.

Kurosaki's latte was getting cold.

"Thank you so much," said the Professor a minute later, scooping up his bag and textbooks. He snuck a peek inside to check for everything, and then smiled when Tōshirō handed over the final escapee; a black ball-point pen.

"You're welcome," said Tōshirō, face reddening faintly. He followed Professor Layton into the building and handed Kurosaki his coffee, sliding into the seat beside him. Kurosaki thanked him, and though he didn't appear to apprehend that Tōshirō was without a drink, he did notice the embarrassed quirk to the other's features;

"You alright?"

"Yes," Tōshirō replied, his voice level with calm. "I just bumped into someone, that's all."

Kurosaki raised an eyebrow and glared over at something behind Tōshirō's head. "It wasn't Harrison was it?"

Tōshirō assured him it hadn't been and the conversation moved on.

The lecturer frowned when Tōshirō collected his essay, but with such a high score on the previous test to negate the effects of the blatant fail, he said nothing on the matter beyond a stern moment of surprise.

Kurosaki, on the other hand, was praised for his hard work and for 'quite astonishingly pulling that out of the bag'. Tōshirō pretended not to hear the exchange, something akin to guilt holding back his tongue. (Though the dazzling grin on his friend's face was entirely worth it).

"I seriously thought I might be moving out today," Kurosaki said after the lecture, tapping a text into his phone as they strolled to meet Rangiku and some of her friends in the city. He was smiling openly now, everything about his figure seeming lighter, more spirited.

"Have faith," said Tōshirō firmly, stuffing his hands into his pockets, a façade of indifference. "Are you calling your family tonight on Skype? They'll be delighted to hear."

A strange expression passed across the other's face – one Tōshirō struggled to interpret.

"Yeah," said Kurosaki slowly, as if his tongue wanted to say something else. "You know… I worked out that the coffee was from you because I recognised your handwriting from all those notes you let me borrow."

"Oh?" Tōshirō prompted, raising an inquisitive countenance.

Kurosaki was watching him, analysing any minute movement. "It looks like a smaller, slightly neater version of mine, did you notice?"

The question was softly spoken, rising merrily at the end. Still, Tōshirō almost tripped over the curb. "Oh," he said.

"_Oh_," Kurosaki echoed.

And then he laughed.

* * *

**End Notes**: /cries because this was supposed to be a drabble

Updated on the 22/03/14 for grammatical checks and improvement in reading clarity.


End file.
